


nothing like the sun

by orphan_account



Series: sharp teeth and sharper words [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alpha Castiel, Alpha Sam, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alpha/Omega, Biting, Claiming, F/M, Fantastic Sexism, Jealous Sam, Knotting, M/M, Omega Dean, Omegaverse, Oral Sex, Pack Dynamics, Possessive Dean, Possessive Sam, Ruby is a dick, strange cultural norms, weecester
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-20
Updated: 2015-11-20
Packaged: 2018-05-02 13:48:59
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,462
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5250470
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam Winchester grows up as an alpha. It's harder than he thought. </p><p>Then Dean falls in love, and things get even worse.</p>
            </blockquote>





	nothing like the sun

 

_They who face Death by torture for each life beneath their breast_

    _May not deal in doubt or pity—must not swerve for fact or jest._

 

\--

 

Sam was raised to believe that being an alpha is awesome.

It’s uh. It’s _not._

He presents, and it all goes downhill.

 

\--

 

He loses his teeth. All of them: they tumble from his gums like a fistful of ivory dice, tipped with blood and flesh, falling in the shower and when he is eating -- chew-chew-crunch --popping out one after the other, all in the space of a month. So here he is: twelve, and stinking of carrion. Every time he opens his mouth the smell of blood wafts out, and when he smiles he shows gums with new teeth scything through tender flesh, gums red and oozing, gums falling off, peeling in strips, flesh giving way, he’s decaying and falling apart before building up again. Except he’s not building up, not yet.

This is being an alpha: spitting blood into the sink, a mouth so tender he cannot eat, and growing pains that cripple.

 

\--

 

The stages of becoming an alpha: the rut; the knot-popping.

As inexorable as the tides.

It's not a great moment, celebrated by his father and witnessed by his brother.

(Sam is very glad of this.)

It occurs when Amy Pond presses her lips to his.

He gets hard -- that happens a lot; he's used to it -- but then she moves closer, her small breasts pushing against his chest and --

Suddenly his dick is almost spherical (or so it seems) and his zip is biting into that most tender part of him with sharp metal teeth. All the colour drains from Sam's face; his eyes fly open wide and he utters a hard, broken sound.

" _Oh_!" gasps Amy, her hands fluttering to her face. A fragment of laughter escapes between her fingers, and Sam's blood returns in a surge: flags of red standing stark on his cheekbones.

 

\--

 

Not so long after that, Amy kills her mother.

Throughout the entire, absurd affair Sam's knot stays firmly popped.

 

\--

 

It takes three hours to go down.

He can't even jerk off to make it go away. He tries, but it hurts so much that he has to stop; it's as tender as a ripe peach, and about as big.

How can omegas find knots attractive? His cock looks like a snake that's swallowed a tennis ball. It throbs with a deep, unyielding ache -- and whenever he even brushes one finger against the knot the ache tightens to a stab of pain that lances all the way up to the put of his stomach.

He ends up crying in the bathroom.

He cries because Amy is gone, because he's left there trying desperately to make his knot un-pop while his lovely, innocent friend flees across the country: a fox skulking from shadow to shadow, forever on the run. Because lifeis not fair, and monsters are not always what they seem, and he can still smell the thick copper reek of blood.

And then, of course, Dean walks in.

He looks from Sam's knot to Sam's reddened tear-stained face.

" _RIght_ ," he says.

The door clicks shut.

Sam cums.

 

\--

 

He keeps cumming.

He uses an entire roll of toilet tissue to mop up the, uh, the residue -- _oh God why is it happening agai_ n --

 

\--

 

See, when an omega or a beta has a wet dream they’ll have a couple of messy spurts.

Sam? Sam soaks the _fucking sheets_.

Every single time.

And he’s a teenager. It happens a lot.

 

\--

 

Alphas look at Dean when they're out.

It bothers Sam.

Dean is _his-his-his._  He’s pack, and he’s not a bitch -- he’s nothing like most omegas, all softness and bared throats, all looking down when Sam looks at them. He’s not a bitch (Sam is very careful never to say that word in front of Dean, because Dean has this thing about it. Sam wants to explain: I’m not talking about you, I would never talk about you like that, I love you, you are my world and my equal -- but Jesus Christ that ‘mega is gagging for it, useless with heat, useless and whorish and shameless -- so, yes, that one there, that one is a bitch.

And that one. And _that one_ \--)

But other alphas, they don’t realise that Dean isn’t a bitch, isn’t a normal omega -- that’s he’s the equal of any alpha, that he is Sam’s brother.

It's a game. Sam, all gangling limbs and pointed teeth, will snarl and posture when an alpha starts to slink towards Dean; Dean will snigger, pretend at being a coy little omega -- he'll bat long lashes, wink and fluster oh me oh my what is a girl to do with all these big bad knotheads snarling around her? -- and then Sam will stand aside, ever the gentleman, as Dean beats seven kinds of shit out of the offender.

 _(I'm going to beat seven kinds of shit out of you_ , Dean is fond of saying, which could take a while, _because so far I've only discovered five_.)

 

\--

 

After one such game, when the alpha limps away with blood between her teeth and shame heavy in her step, Sam presses a clumsy kiss to his brother’s jawline, lets his lips skate along to Dean’s neck and brush his nape -- he’s not thinking, only doing what makes sense. He’s twelve, and he’s got this impulse, this desire -- this -- instinct -- to touch his brother’s nape, where the skin is soft and white and downed with hair, where Dean will get scraped by the sun, or hit by Dad when he’s being disobedient.

( _dean you’re impossible)_

And Sam doesn’t know why, only that he wants to, and he is twelve and an alpha just-turned and as such he’s not exactly great with this little thing called impulse control.

So Sam presses his mouth to Dean’s nape. Dean freezes and his scent spikes with the fever-tang of aggression, but he’s not lashing out: he’s very, very still and reeking of violence and Sam knows then that’s he made a huge, huge mistake.

 

\--

 

The scuffle is brief and ferocious. Sam’s getting stronger, but he’s still all long limbs and too-many teeth; Dean thwacks him onto his front, twists his arm behind his back and sings right in Sam’s ear.

Sings. Yes. Dean doesn’t realise he’s doing it, and the few times that Sam has pointed it out Dean just looks at Sam like he’s an idiot.

Dean sings, at the back of his throat: something caught between a purr and a shriek, and tamped down under his breath. It’s a croon, a lullaby shiver that sweeps up and down Sam’s skin and relaxes him as completely as a hot bath.

 

\--

 

“Don’t ever do that again,” says Dean. “I’m not --”

“ -- _like them_ ,” Sam chimes in. “I know. And I’m not your packleader, it’s not right.”

 

\--

 

Sam’s getting better at the whole alpha-voice thing. It really comes in handy -- doesn’t work all the time, certainly doesn’t work on Dean, but it helps when he’s facing annoying authority figures who yield to sharp teeth and a knot.

A thought: does Dad’s throat hurt from all that alpha-voice he uses.

An image: Dad’s throat leaking blood from abuse. Pooling red at the base of his tongue. Thrust out with the words. Spattering Dean’s face red.

A revelation: Sam hopes that Dad’s in pain every time he lets his voice climb lower, lets himself command

Another thought: _when an alpha cannot rule his pack without that voice, should he rule at all?_

 

\--

 

Sam wants to say: _all I am doing I am doing for you._

Sam wants to say: _I can make the world better, and I will, and I will make it worthy of you Dean, Dean, Dean. Understand._

Sam wants to say: _Dad is not worthy of your love. Contempt is a fungus that kills love stone dead -- why won't you breathe up the same spores I did, let your loyalty be tamped down? Stop loving him. Start loving me, like I love you._

Sam wants to say: _I am an alpha, I am your alpha, you are my pack -- the only pack I want or need._

But all those words stick in his throat, and all that spills out is a low, angry snarl. The thrum of an alpha --

"Dean --"

\-- and then Dean _screams,_ and Sam has never heard a sound like it before; it strikes at a deep, primal part of him and his bowels quiver in fear. He bares the slope of his throat, submitting to his brother for the first time since he was eleven and unpresented, all softness and blunt teeth.

"Leave if you want," says Dad. "But don't fucking come back."

 

\--

 

Sam loses his virginity to Jess.

Dean would laugh at him if he knew how long Sam had waited. He's twenty when he starts dating her; twenty one when she first touches his cock, her slim hand curling expert around it, her tongue darting along the soft tissueskin of his balls, and he had cum in five seconds flat. A little later -- not that much later; the joys of an alpha’s refractory period can never be overstated -- she's got his cock half down her throat, her tongue laving back and forth, drool swinging down her chin and somehow, somehow, she still looks so beautiful that she puts the sun to shame.

There's a sudden stab of heat in his groin, and he cums.

And he knots.

 _Fuckfuckfuckfuck_ \-- alphas don't knot every time they cum, of course, but he's knotting now and he's still inside her throat. He yanks back, his cock swelling fast, and she starts to gag, choking as his dick fills her mouth. He's heard horror stories of alphas killing partners: knotting, cutting off their air.

Fear snaps black wings at the back of his brain. He cums again, in a hard gush all over his hand, and his dick is still huge and heavy with his knot. "I am so sorry!" he gasps.

Jess is coughing. No. _No_ , she's _crying_ \--

Jesus Christ, what has he done?

"Sam, you fucking idiot," says Jess.

She's laughing.

She smells of cinnamon and sugar and home, and she kisses him like he is the only thing in the world that matters.

 

\--

 

Three weeks after that incident -- when they've been together a year -- Sam knots her for the first time. It's also the first time they fuck: there's none of the awkwardness he expected -- he slides in to her slick, wet heat (she's not in season; like most omegas that go for education she's on the heavy-duty suppressants, the ones that ensure no tracery of heat slips through) and the instant he's there he fills her up, swelling until they are locked in tight. She gasps his name, scratches his back, nips his shoulders.

"Jesus Sam, oh Jesus, oh God that -- that feels so good, that's amazing -- oh Sammy, I love you -- Sammy, Sammy claim me. Please claim me." She's babbling. Her hips rock; she's in his lap, and every twitch of her body against his sends thundershocks of pleasure through Sam's cock.

She's crying. Her fingers find his hair, and she kisses him: open mouthed and desperate.

"You sure?"

"I'm your mate. Now and always, now and always."

"Now and always," he echoes, and sinks his teeth in deep.

 

\--

 

But Jess burns.

She burns on the ceiling, and he cannot save her.

 

\--

 

Sam wants to say: _I'm a terrible alpha -- I can't protect my pack, i can't i can't_

Sam wants to say: _jess i am sorry_

Sam wants to say: _kill me kill me._

He manages, "I was meant to protect her."

Dean yanks the Impala over to the side of the road, and grabs Sam into a rough embrace. His scent has changed: it's got notes of charring to it; burned sugar; a bakery burning down. Sam presses his face into his brother’s neck and weeps with the intensity of one vomiting on all fours, cries until he starts to cough, his hands curling into useless fists at Dean's back.

He's useless. He's worse than that. He couldn't save his mate. He couldn't protect his pack; he couldn't do anything.

He's worse than _John_ \--

"You're my pack," says Dean. "You're my alpha," and it's not an acknowledgement of Sam's authority -- and Sam's dreamed of that moment more than he will ever admit -- it's something else entirely.

"I'm going to look after you," says Dean.

(Dean is not like any omegas Sam has ever known, not like any omega in the entire world --)

His teeth find Sam's nape and hang on. Now and always, thinks Sam, and he chokes out another sob.

Dean bites down a note harder. He croons at the back of his throat, a low and nameless lullaby.

 

\--

 

Dean dies, and Sam’s world ends -- his pack is gone, every last bit of it, and he drifts aimless and hungry and lonely. A wolf with no pack is a dangerous thing; a Winchester with no pack is even worse.

Ruby takes the body of an omega girl. This is deliberate, he knows. Her old body was a beta, dry as dust, no scent at all -- but this meatsuit has warm blood, and her scent glands exude a sharp, sweet scent, something a little like spring.

“It’s warm inside this body,” she says. Her eyes are huge and dark, her hair falling in soft tangles around a beautiful, beautiful face. “Sammy? It’s warm.”

Her fingers trail down her collarbone, tracing towards the V between her breasts. Sam’s mouth goes dry.

He grabs her, tugs her into his arms, kisses her hard and brutal, kisses her like those sort of alphas kiss omegas -- like knotheads, all teeth and biting and claim-claim- _mine_. Ruby reciprocates, fights back, chewing his mouth and lips, biting her tongue open so he can drinking straight from her mouth.

He knots her, and she _screams_.

 

\--

 

But then Dean returns.

 

\--

“Dude, get off,” says Dean.

Sam shoves his face into Dean’s neck, running his nose along his brother’s hairline, inhaling the sugar-spice-coffee smell of him -- _home-home-home-home-PACK-PACK -_ \- and he rubs his cheek against the fuzz of Dean’s beard, sweat catching, smell mingling. Scents mingling. Sam smells of hot tar, sun-on-dead-ground, vegetation-after-rain --Deans’ omega-syrup mixing with that, together, and Sam -- working on instinct more than anything else, grabs his brother, spins him round, chest-to-back -- mantling him, towering over him, teeth seeking Dean’s nape --

_(claim-pack-mine-mine)_

\-- and Dean decks him.

 

\--

 

Sam spits blood on the ground.

“Said I was sorry,” he says. “It’s --”

“A _knothead-fucking_ thing to do Sammy. Thought you weren’t that kind of alpha.”

“You’re back. Youre home, and I --”

“Thought you’d remind me who was boss?”

“You left! You left me alone, and I -- “ Tears spark hot and humiliating behind his eyes. “ -- I had to learn how to cope Dean, I had to learn to cope without you.”

“Yeah, I can smell that.”

That’s when Sam realises why Ruby picked a human host with working scent glands and a beating heart. Her demon-stink is masked by the marshmallow-sweetness of an omega getting thoroughly fucked.

(did she know? did she know all along -- )

 

\--

 

“You have to choose,” Dean says, not much later. “Me or her.”

And Sam chooses; he sinks his teeth into Ruby’s neck, leaving a roseate circle; the brightest, shining claim he can leave.

He laps her blood from his teeth. It tastes like electricity and power, and not a shred like home.

 

\--

 

Lucifer flies free.

Ruby dies in Sam’s arms.

And afterwards Dean bumps his nose against the top vertebrae of Sam’s spine, breathes something like apology against his skin, and bites down. Sam goes slack against him, hanging like dead meat from a butcher’s hook, his bones heavy as lead, guilt a solid draining weight in his lungs.

But that’s okay.

Because Dean holds him up.

 

\--

 

Dean’s not like other omegas.

That’s the whole point.

Sam’s never seen him submit to anyone, not since Dad dies. Dean never shows the white flash of his throat, never lets anyone touch the nape of his neck -- he’s not one to be claimed, touched, held. He’s Sam’s packleader, and it doesn’t matter that he can’t pop a knot or bite chunks out of people with his teeth; he’s Dean, he’s different. Not an alpha, of course not, but not an omega either -- not really. He stands on ground that is entirely his own; everything he is he made for himself, crafting himself from bone and blood and fury.

Dean’s not like other omegas.

And Castiel isn’t like anything human.

Castiel reeks of power. More so than anything Sam’s ever smelled in his entire fucking life -- Castiel smells of lightning, thunder, rain; fire, petrol; he’s a storm in human skin, a barely caged entanglement of claws, wings, feathers, eyes. He’s got the face of a man, but he smells like abhorrence.

_(he’s not human not human not -- runs under Sam’s skin in a wild charge every time he sees him --)_

_(not human not human not --)_

_(its instinct. a surge of revulsion for what is not right. an alpha’s feel for a threat to the pack.)_

_(dean dean dean is all sam has)_

And, until Castiel, Sam is all Dean has.

 

\--

 

He asks for a separate motel room. Says, “Dude, I’m thirty two -- I’ve got a right to space.” And then the curve of his mouth turns lewd. “And Cas is coming over.”

Sam wants to tear out Castiel’s throat.

 

\--

 

He tries to comfort himself. Castiel is an omega -- beta at the most -- his teeth are blunt, clean things in his mouth and he doesn’t have the shudder of an alpha’s command in his voice. Besides, Dean only ever goes with omegas. It’s a quirk that Sam finds a little odd -- alpha and omega go together, that’s the whole point -- but he doesn’t mind. Saves the hassle of having an alpha around.

Besides, if Dean were to find himself an alpha --

But he won’t. He can’t. He’s not like other omegas, and even with the newfound joy he’s got with Castiel he’s still safely in that liminal space: not omega, not alpha, just Dean, just Sam’s brother. His scent is tinctured with Castiel’s now -- sweat, storm, spark and charge and sex.

But Castiel’s not an alpha -- not anything, not really; he’s not human -- and so Sam chokes down his jealousy, his fear, tells himself that soon this will end and his pack-of-two will be back together.

 

\--

 

Sam’s woken by the click of a key in a lock. Dean’s scent curls into the room at once, a warm sugar mess that’s ruined by the bitter flash of anger, of fear.

Before Sam can open his mouth, shed the cling of sleep and come up with something comforting, Dean is pressed against his back.

His teeth latch into Sam’s nape, getting a good chunk of his hair in the process. His throat burrs with that metallic singsong lullaby, and Sam settles down at once.

“Is it Cas?” he asks.

“We’re done,” says Dean, his voice a little muffled by the fact his teeth are stuck in Sam’s neck.

“Wanna talk about it?”

Dean releases Sam long enough to say, “I’m not a fuckin’ bitch,” before clamping down again, and something sharp needles just under Sam’s ribs.

“You’re not. Not like them. _Nothing_ like them.”

The lullaby cuts off. Sam misses it, but he can’t find the words to bring it back.

 

\--

 

“I do not understand what I have done wrong,” says Castiel, and Sam hates the bastard -- hates him for hurting Dean, leaving Dean, for getting in the way; for smelling so inhuman it’s impossible to tell what he is. Hates him with the unfettered, untouchable hated of an alpha sensing a threat to the sanctitiy of his pack.

But there is hurt in his eyes, a depthless hurt, and Sam is sitll Sam, knotbrain  be damned. He’s still a great lolloping bundle of concern, still desperate to make sure everyone is alright, and so he sits down next to Cas. Dean’s out, fetching supplies, but the smell of him lingers: on the pillows, the sheets, on Sam.

Castiel’s nostrils quiver.

“I love him,” he says, quite unexpectedly. His voice sounds flayed down to the last nerve. “I love him, and angels are not meant to love. Thou shalt be like the angels in Heaven: mateless.”

“I am the Alpha and the Omega,” Sam says. “If we’re quoting scripture.”

“And that is the problem. I -- Jimmy -- I thought there was something wrong with him. With his teeth.” Castiel gestures to his mouth. The words stumble and trip over each other, hastening to leave Cas’s throat. “I fixed it. I -- humanity -- you are so complex and I thought. I thought.”

“Jimmy’s an alpha. And you’re an alpha,” he says. He remembers Dean scent, spiked raw and shivering with anger and fear, and a snarl builds at the back of his throat. “You lied to him.”

“Sam, I did not know -- “

“You lied to him. Did’ya knot him, is that it? Wait until you were inside and have him dangling off you like a bitch? He’s not a bitch. He’s my brother --”

Sam’s shouting. His voice has dropped into the alpha-timbre, shuddering with command, and Castiel leaps up off the bed. His angel-blade shivers into his hand, running hot and silver with power.

“I did not know! I never meant to hurt him -- please, I did not understand.” CAstiel’s frantic. The blade vanishes; his hands splay through his hair and he utters a hard, broken sob. “I love Dean, and I do not understand; I am an angel, and I do not understand.”

And then he does something remarkable: he kneels, and exposes the curve of his neck. The top of his spine.

Utter submission. Sam’s stomach roils at the sight. “Get up Cas.”

“No. I do not understand, but neither do you.” He peers up at Sam through a fall of dark hair, and his eyes are glacier-blue-cold, and he’s about submissive as a fucking nuclear submarine. “Dean --”

“-- isn’t a normal omega, I know. But. Oh God.” And Sam coughs laughter into his palm, half-disbelieving. “But you’re in love with him. Jesus.”

He wants to tell Castiel to go, to stay away, to never come back. But he also knows that Dean has done nothing but mope, a strange distant sadness in his eyes -- like he’s facing something a long way off, slowly curling in, disaster arriving -- or else he’s watching something go away, fall to nothing.

“Apologise,” Sam says. “Apologise to him. Can’t promise that he’ll he’ll forgive you, but the silly fucker is mad for you.”

 

\--

 

Dean is not a normal omega.

Until he is.

 

\--

 

The mark is livid, flagrant, marring the skin on Dean’s neck. It’s digusting. Sam wants to get his teeth in, bite down and deep, chew until he sees bone, until there’s no sign of the claim left.

Dean’s not like other omegas, he’s not a bitch, he’s not-not-not.

_(knot? ha. get it? because Dean isn’t like other omegas, until he is)_

Because only bitches get marked like that: a deep, purple stamp, frilled with teeth and crusted blood. Only bitches in heat get knotted like that. He’d bitten Jess, sure, but he’d done it on her clavicle, where she could easily hide it. Snapping a claim onto the nape-- letting someone snap a claim onto that bit of you -- is something that bitches and knotheads do. Stupid, whiny omegas who are nothing like Dean.

Dean isn’t like other omegas. Sam rubs the faint imprint of Dean’s teeth on his neck. Dean is claimed; Dean has an alpha.

Sam will not bow down to Castiel, not now, not ever.

 

\--

 

“You gonna have his pups too? I mean, I hear you getting knotted every fucking night,” Sam says. It’s been three days. The mark is healing, dulling at the edges, but it is still scabbed. It darkens. The blood-brightness is gone, but it’s settling in, black-hole dark. Veined with purple and blue. A thunderhead.

“Fuck you,” says Dean. His gaze is flat, level. “What’s got into you?”

“What’s gotten into you?” Sam retorts. “You let him knot you. Mate you. Claim you.”

“You didn’t have a problem with me fucking him. Didn’t have a problem with him being in love with me -- or me with him -- and I do love him Sam, I fuckin’ love him. What’s wrong with this?” and he gestures to the mark on his neck, the thundercloud, the bloodwell.

“Only bitches get bitten like that. Get claimed like that -- “ Sam says. He can’t help it. It’s like an old, infected wound split open; the pus comes pouring out. “--and you’re not like other omegas Dean, you’re -- “

“Better than them? You sound like Dad.”

And of all the things in the world, Sam expected that least of all.

“I’m nothing like Dad. Dad was --”

“ -- a fucking knothead. And Sam? So are you. You’re exactly like other alphas, you just don’t want to admit it -- “

“I’m nothing like them! I let you be --”

Oh shit.

Sam’s mouth hangs open; he wants to snatch the word back but it’s too late, too late.

The silence between them opens a great, gaping maw.

“Let?” Dean echoes. “You let me. Let me. Well, of course you did -- “

“Dean, please --”

“-- no Sam, no don’t worry. I understand now. You let the bitch pretend to be packleader.” His voice is climbing louder, and getting a strange buzz to it -- like the lullaby Dean used to hum for Sam, only frightening. A swarm of angry bees. The far off shiver of a mountain lion’s hunting shriek.

“You’re not like other omegas!” Sam shouts back. “You never were -- “ he’s submitting now, eyes down and throat pulled tight and every line of his body screaming apology. “You -- I thought, when you mated, if you mated -- it would be different, that you wouldn’t get claimed -- “

“You bastard,” and Sam suddenly has far more sympathy for Cas.

He doesn’t know what he’s done wrong.

“Bastard knothead,” says Dean. Venom curdles in his voice. “You don’t have any idea do you?”

“I don’t --”

“Not like the rest,” Dean echoes, sharp with spite. “Let me ask you the same fuckin’ thing I should have asked Dad -- what is wrong with the rest of us?”

 

-

 

Us.

You.

Them.

Us.

 

\--

 

This is Sam Winchester’s world: split into two parts. Pack and not pack.

Between the two is a wall. It is made of salt and bad memories and knowing the words to an exorcism at four years old.

 

\--

 

“When I was ten,” Sam says, “Dad was hunting. He left us in a hotel he had booked for two nights, left Dean the money for food -- can’t remember how much. Anyway, three days later and he wasn’t back. It was the days before cell phones, so there was no way to reach him. It was only meant to be a couple of days, so neither of us were enrolled in school. We just watched cartoons all day. But then -- the hotel manager was knocking on the door, trying to get us to give over more money. Dean handed over the emergency cash. Next day, Dad wasn’t there. Dean took his best knife down to the pawn shop, got thirty dollars for it. Paid for another night, fed me Fruit Loops and didn’t eat. Told me he’d eaten already. I didn’t believe him, but there wasn’t anything I could do. I wasn’t an alpha. Wasn’t anything but a kid.”

“Next day, Dean pawned his gun. It was a dodgy place -- no one thought anything of a fourteen year old ‘mega showing up with a sawn-off. Day after that, no Dad and nothing to pawn. So Dean stopped taking his suppressants. Went into heat. His first heat ever. And he -- he went out into this alley down the side of the hotel, reeking like a wet-dream, and he pulled an alpha trucker. Said it would be a hundred dollars for a BJ, got talked down to seventy five -- would have taken thirty. Just to keep the room. Just to keep the roof over my head.”

“This guy wants to go to a room. Dean doesn’t want to, but in the end he brings him back, doesn’t want to vanish off to God-knows-where with some knothead -- I’m in the bathroom, barely breathing, and this guy forks over seventy-five, sticks his tongue down Dean’s throat -- and Dean throws him over backwards, dude smacks his head on the wall, trails down, bleeding like a geyser.”

“Oh, the cunt didn’t die. He bled, and he swore, and Dean jams a knife at his throat and grabs what’s left of the guys cash, and it’s two hundred, and it’s enough to tide us over until Dad gets back -- three days later.”

“Now, why am I telling you this? It’s cos three years after that we’re in the same place, and Dean’s there, and this alpha wolfwhistles at him. Dad’s not there, Dad’s drunk off his ass -- we’re just trying to shop for supplies, and it’s real late, like one or two in the morning. This knothead shouts at Dean, says he’s got -- got a big fat knot he wants to stick in him -- that he can smell him. And I, I uh -- I get all hot, all hot and shaky and feverish, and I go for him -- I’m thirteen, and a fucking idiot. The dude would have ripped me apart.”

“But Dean’s got a gun. He shoots the guy in the head. Blood everywhere. Gets on his face. He has to spit it out. The checkout girl, she’s an omega, she’s cringing and weeping and showing her throat -- and Dean just throws some cash down, tells Dad we have to leave town and boom. That’s it.”

“So yeah. That’s Dean. He’s a bastard. He’s my pack. He’ll kill to save me, he has killed to save me -- and you knotted him like he’s just another bitch. So yeah. Fuck you Cas. Fuck you.”

 

\--

 

“You do not have a very high opinion of omegas, do you?” Castiel says.

“That’s ridiculous,” says Sam. “I was mated to one, I love -- “

“I have noticed,” says Castiel, low and deliberate and very very cold, “that many of your kind profess to love and do not mean it.”

 

\--

 

The sky is bronze when Sam leaves his pack for the third time.

He walks. Can’t bring himself to take the Impala -- it’s Dean’s, and it reeks of sex (Dean and Cas have christened every surface on and in that car.)

This is Sam Winchester's world: pack and not pack. 

This is Sam's world: not pack anymore.

 

\--

 

The Impala swings into the side of the road. Headlights cast crazy shadows onto Sam's face: he's a feral, frightened thing; his teeth flash white as sudden lightning. 

Dean's on him before he can open his mouth  

His weight bowls Sam to the ground. He crams his nose against Sam's ear, chases the line of Sam's sweat with his tongue, like he is trying to taste him, drink him. "Bastard," he growls, "you absolute bastard, how dare you, how fuckin' dare you. You're my pack and I need you. I love you."

"You let yourself get knotted -- but --" and Dean rolls Sam over, onto his back, straddling him; over his shoulder Sam sees stars, the rolling froth of cloud, the moon riding high as if upon a celestial wave. 

"I've been thinking," says Dean, "and I realised that I right: you're a fuckin' knothead. But I'm a dick, and I'm sorry."

"Wha -- "

"Jess died Sam. She died because Yellow Eyes is a prick, because Lucifer needed a host. Not because you're a shitty alpha. And Cas ain't gonna take your place. And he's not going to hurt me, and you don't need to defend me from him. Cas, show him."

And Castiel, who had been hanging back, obliging steps forwards, lowers his head, and shows Sam his own mark. "Dean has claimed me," he says, "as much as I have claimed him. I do not seek to own your brother."

"You stupid shit," Dean says, affectionately. "I love you. And I love Cas. And Cas and I -- we're together, forever, and I'm not gonna let him drag me around by the scruff. And he wouldn't. Trust me. Trust me when I say that this is what I want, and this is what I need."

Sam's tearing up-- part from emotion, part from the pain of having Dean bearing down on him. "Okay. I trust you. I trust you."

Dean cradles Sam's skull; one hand on each temple, foreheads pressed together, and at the back of his throat he starts to sing. 

 

 


End file.
